


A Million Little Times

by DarkIsRising



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Angsty Obi-Wan, Librarian Qui-Gon, M/M, Pre-Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkIsRising/pseuds/DarkIsRising
Summary: After the Sith was dispatched I assessed Master Qui-Gon Jinn’s vitals and, sensing they were failing, I interceded.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 30
Kudos: 108





	A Million Little Times

**Author's Note:**

> ***
> 
> Did I watch Attack of the Clones last night, listen to Taylor Swift this morning, and spend all day writing another angsty fic? Why, yes. Yes, I did.
> 
> ***

Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn’t like to talk about what happened on Naboo after he’d split the Sith in two. The mind healers tried, Qui-Gon tried, even Master Yoda tried for one very long, very persistent, month. Qui-Gon’s former padawan only ever repeated the same words that were in his perfunctory Council report and nothing more.

 _After the Sith was dispatched I assessed Master Qui-Gon Jinn’s vitals and, sensing they were failing, I interceded._

Qui-Gon has heard it from Obi-Wan enough times that the words are pressed indelibly to his memory, like the wax seals on scrolls in the Archives that still hold shapes made by beings long since dead. He’s spent hours pouring over the transcript from that report, access granted by Mace Windu who'd agreed with a shrug, saying: “I don’t know what you think you’ll find.” 

Qui-Gon wasn’t sure, either. It didn't matter in the end— he never found it, anyway.

Trying to get any more out of Obi-Wan had only ever resulted in a jaw clenched so tightly that Qui-Gon could feel the grinding ache of it in his own teeth. So, years ago, Qui-Gon stopped asking and eventually everyone else did, too. 

“Master?” The voice of his padawan peeps up from behind Qui-Gon. She is careful to not disrupt the library’s gentle hush even though they are the only two lifeforms still here this evening. “Master Scan’Ln requested these materials on the geological history of ionite. She says she’ll be down for them in the morning.”

“Ah, excellent. Thank you, my padawan,” Qui-Gon says, leaning on the cane he’s needed to walk ever since a Sith had run him through. He glances over the collection of data sheets and bound leather books that Roslyne is spreading across a wide table for his approval. “Yes, that does seem to be all of them.”

After his long recovery from the Battle of Naboo, Qui-Gon knew his position on the High Council had been all but assured. It had been the talk of the Temple for months afterwards when he had asked for a posting in the Jedi Archives, instead. It seemed a strange fit for the master with a reputation for a dizzying rhetorical style learned from years of diplomatic service, but the Qui-Gon that survived Naboo didn’t have it in him to go toe-to-toe with Mace Windu over the fate of the galaxy. His lingering injuries were far too extensive for that.

Now Qui-Gon’s days are occupied with endless collating and careful mugs of tea made by a padawan that walks so silently she could startle a ghost. There, among the glowing blue light of the Archives’ texts, Qui-Gon aids his fellow masters with research for their journeys to other worlds and shakes awake the initiates that fall asleep while studying in the shadowed stacks. When he isn’t busy reshelving or retrieving data, Qui-Gon has time enough to study the Chosen One prophecies and other obscurity, paging through ancient books at his own leisure.

A cloaked figure enters the library and Qui-Gon easily recognizes the only Jedi in the Temple with enough grace to move quieter than his current apprentice can. Padawan Roslyne doesn’t seem to notice they are no longer alone and the figure slips in behind the shelves, hidden among the relics of Jedi past.

“You may put them on my desk,” Qui-Gon tells his young Zygerrian apprentice. “And when you’re finished you can go back to our rooms.”

“Are you certain?” she asks, silver eyes gleaming with surprise. “I was going to help you reshelve the materials on the second floor.” 

Master Jocasta Nu is a serene but formidable woman. They usually try not to get on the Chief Librarian’s bad side when it comes to maintaining the Archives’ well-ordered collection. Qui-Gon’s visitor needs to be attended to, though, and it’s worth weathering a withering comment or two from Master Nu to do it. 

“It’ll keep until tomorrow,” he says. She bows, gathering the materials she’d spread out for Qui-Gon’s perusal. “And padawan? I believe I’ll go for a walk after I lock up here. Don’t feel the need to wait for me before you take your supper.”

She bows again, ears turning back in deference, and then on the softest of tiptoes Roslyne pads away.

Qui-Gon waits until she is little more than a point in the distant hall before he makes his way upstairs, leaning heavily on the banister as he goes. His shadow is silent as it follows him, always ten paces behind. 

There's a corner among the stacks that few enter, and Qui-Gon leads them to it now. In the blue glow of data Obi-Wan brings his hood down and Qui-Gon can see his face. Bright blue eyes, an auburn beard, and hair that he’s been playing with growing longer, for all that it’s never quite as long as Qui-Gon’s. 

Obi-Wan has lost the insouciance of youth and the corners of his eyes are cut sharp with the sum total of all he's seen. There’s a steadiness to him now that Qui-Gon can appreciate even if he hates that it was Qui-Gon's near-death that forged the impulsive boy he’d been into the steadfast man that he’s become. 

The silence of the Archives falls heavy around them. Up here Qui-Gon can't even hear the hum from the data pads downstairs, and though he's sure Obi-Wan is breathing it doesn't make much of a sound. Qui-Gon doesn’t ever initiate this thing between them. Instead he waits for Obi-Wan to step to him, to reach out and draw his head down until they are kissing. 

There's a reading chair in this corner and he follows Obi-Wan’s hands when they urge him to sit. His cane is gently set against the wall within reaching distance, an assured escape if ever Qui-Gon needs it. He never does. 

Obi-Wan straddles his lap, legs folded so that they are slotted together. 

Obi-Wan needs this. His hands are shaking as he reaches for Qui-Gon in the blue-lit dark. He only ever finds Qui-Gon when it's a near thing—when he's trembling and weak and his mind's barriers are so thin Qui-Gon can read all the churning upset that he usually hides so well behind a polished manner and a careful smirk. 

"You should have come sooner," Qui-Gon whispers, tipping Obi-Wan’s head back so that he can mouth at the base of his throat.

"I couldn't," Obi-Wan says and Qui-Gon knows he means he wouldn't let himself. It's pointless to correct him, though, so he kisses a pathway back up Obi-Wan’s neck while Obi-Wan frantically rolls his hips in tight circles until Qui-Gon is panting.

They've done this a million little times before, and Qui-Gon knows they will do it a million little times more after this. Always in the shadows or in secret corners, always when Obi-Wan is so desperate he has to fight back the whimpers of relief when Qui-Gon takes him between his hands.

He doesn’t need to consult a text of prophecy to know that whatever it is that binds them together—this tie that becomes so taut by Obi-Wan’s attempts at abstention that he's half mad with want by the time he seeks Qui-Gon out—is the will of the Force, even if Obi-Wan would deny it until his last breath.

Obi-Wan comes with a sound that is low and deep. He only allows himself a breath before he's out of the chair and dropping to his knees in front of where Qui-Gon sits. Pushing away the layers of Qui-Gon’s clothes, Obi-Wan is hurried and searching.

He wishes that this could all be different. He wishes instead of in chairs set back in shadows they could spend long afternoons in beds surrounded by sunlight and easy affection. But this is where their philosophies diverge: Qui-Gon believes that attachment is the natural conclusion to a life spent following the path of the Light whereas Obi-Wan fights with everything he has for mastery over what centuries of the greatest Jedi minds agree is a weakness to be overcome. Though barring a revocation of the Order and a cheap flight to the nearest beach where they can live out their lives however they'd like, never mind what centuries of great Jedi minds think, this is what Qui-Gon gets of Obi-Wan, and he'll take what he can get. 

“You don’t have to,” Qui-Gon says, when Obi-Wan starts to dip his head, poised to take him in. He presses his thumb to the cleft of Obi-Wan’s chin that now hides behind a trim beard, and while he hasn't seen it in years, it still remains his favorite of Obi-Wan’s features.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is soft and haunted by all the things that follow him through his nightmares, driving Obi-Wan back into Qui-Gon’s arms time after time. “I _do._ ”

Qui-Gon grips the leather arms of the chair and with closed eyes takes the pleasure that Obi-Wan is so eager to give.

“How is Anakin?” Qui-Gon asks when they are done and Obi-Wan is rearranging his cloak around his shoulders.

“Lovesick,” Obi-Wan says wryly. “He heard that Senator Amidala will be on Coruscant tomorrow and he's gone moony ever since.”

“Will you let them meet again?”

“You know I wouldn't if I had my way,” Obi-Wan says with a tired shake of his head, the grim amusement that marks him as the master to a teenage apprentice ringing clear through his voice. “But I have the feeling that fate will conspire to bring them together, nevertheless.”

Qui-Gon smiles. He enjoys bearing witness to this Obi-Wan, the one that now finds himself chasing a reckless padawan from misadventure to misadventure. “Will it be fate conspiring or will it be Anakin’s doing, do you think?”

With a nod, Obi-Wan concedes the point to Qui-Gon.

“Truth be told I'm not sure whose will is stronger between the two. I only worry that he’ll grow too attached if this obsession with the Senator is indulged any further.”

 _Would that be so bad?_ Qui-Gon wants to ask, but won't. Instead he plants his palms firmly on the armrests and leverages himself out of the chair. With one hand on his shoulder, Obi-Wan steadies Qui-Gon while his other hand reaches to where the cane is resting.

Qui-Gon takes it from him with a kiss that Obi-Wan pulls away from with a quick look over his shoulder. The moment has passed, his need has abated, and now they are back to the place they always return to.

“Would you like to come back to mine for supper?” It’s a foolish question, and Obi-Wan is shaking his head before the words are fully out of Qui-Gon’s mouth.

“I don’t think that would be wise.” Obi-Wan is looking somewhere in the distance. “Would you like some assistance down the stairs?”

“I can manage on my own,” Qui-Gon says and if Obi-Wan notices the edge to his voice he ignores it as he rearranges his cloak for the second time.

Qui-Gon watches Obi-Wan turn to walk away like he does every time they do this, and every time it makes his heart sink a little deeper into his chest. It weighs on him—their trysts, Obi-Wan’s measured distance and the pale man that waits until he’s hollowed-eyed and hurting to seek Qui-Gon out again. Whatever this is, this need that keeps Obi-Wan tethered to him, it isn't something Qui-Gon has ever encountered before. Qui-Gon has tried, has lost hours amid the Order’s vast catalogue of wisdom, seeking out an answer to a question that Obi-Wan has spent ten years refusing to speak.

"Obi-Wan," he calls out to Obi-Wan’s back “What did you do?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t ask what Qui-Gon means because it’s always there between them: in the spaces knitted together in a jagged pattern that Qui-Gon has trouble following the strands of. It’s always Naboo. Always a Sith. Always that last blinkering moment—final words he doesn’t remember speaking—before blackness had taken hold.

“What I had to,” Obi-Wan says at last and it's more than he's ever offered before.

“But why?” 

He knows he's pressing his luck. One new admission from Master Obi-Wan Kenobi after a decade of asking is miraculous. Two would be unthinkable.

“Because I would have ruined myself any number of ways if it kept you alive. And that is why, my dear Master, attachment is a dangerous thing.”

With that Obi-Wan lifts his hood, shrouding his face as he leaves Qui-Gon until the next time they find each other among the Temple’s quiet alcoves and abandoned halls all over again.


End file.
